


Leave out all the rest

by Kujaku



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kujaku/pseuds/Kujaku
Summary: Wanted to write a short 'n sweet bit of my faves.Enjoy! :)





	Leave out all the rest

_I dreamed I was missing_

_You were so scared_

_But no one would listen_

_'Cause no one else cared_

 

_After my dreaming_

_I woke with this fear_

_What am I leaving_

_When I'm done here?_

 

\- Linkin Park - Leave out all the rest -

 

* * *

 

 

\- _...no!!_

His cry was so loud it woke him, and truth be told, he was glad of it. It was too hot, too stuffy...he had an unpleasant chill up and down his spine and he could feel the sweat pearling on his forehead. Half in a panic he checked his surroundings - where was he ? - but calmed down slowly recognising the bed and the clothes laid out on the creaky chair. This was his main hideout, there was no doubt.

Hands still trembling, Montparnasse reached out towards the small table, grabbing and draining the glass that had already been nearly emptied the night before. He had to stop doing this...he had to stop inviting the same nightmares over and over again, had to stop courting the same images.

Bloodied hands. Withered flowers. The taste of iron and grit. And the feeling of silence and solitude, the sense that all heat and warmth and feeling had simply...vanished. It was hardly past dawn - the sun had hardly begun to warm the air - but sleep had vanished. Even for someone like Montparnasse, dreaming of death too often was unpleasant. Especially when it was his own, over and over again.

He splashed cold water over his face, just willing the dregs of the dream to disappear; so many hidden (and not so hidden) fears were still running around in his mind, and there was only one thing that could give him rest. Only a while ago, he would have done rather unsavoury or (non-visible) self-destructive things, but now...now he just craved a flash of auburn under sunlight.

And at this hour, he only needed to search for a little while before he recognised the small group of friends assembled outside their usual café. It wasn't hard to make them out, they were such a noisy, expansive troupe of young men. At least they weren't trying to convert the passers-by to their ideological ideas yet... He might just have a moment to enjoy a coffee without having Enjolras screaming in his ear... So he sat and waited, his cup growing cold as his fingers just played along the rim. The sun grew warmer and his eyes started to hurt, but still there was no sign of the one he was searching for.

Until at last, walking with a book in his hand and a dreamy smile on his face, Jehan Prouvaire appeared from a small alleyway. He seemed totally unaware of the dandy until he glanced up and smiled all the wider.

\- I felt I would see you today, I dreamt of a black cat and a raven called my name as I left my lodgings.

\- Only you would take note of dreams...

It was their usual tone, and their usual chatter, neither exactly sure of what they were and how to describe it, but Montparnasse knew perfectly that his words didn't sound as they always did. And he knew that Jehan had picked up on it. He was a poet, after all.

\- I take note of dreams but also of what I see. What troubles you?

\- ...I...

What exactly could he say? That he had dreamt of dying? That he was terrified each time it happened? He had built his reputation and wasn't yet ready to let even Jehan see underneath the veneer.

\- Walk with me? There is too much sunlight.

\- My love, you are more a bat each time I see you.

\- _Do not say that!_

This time he nearly snapped, his cup smashing onto the cobbles. Jehan took a half-step back and at once Montparnasse felt guilt - _guilt!_ \- at his outburst.

\- It is not you. At least, it is. It is entirely your fault, Jehan Prouvaire.

 

*

 

Jehan had managed to find a nice shady place near the Musain, more specifically he had comandeered a bench under a large beech tree in the Luxemburg park. Montparnasse had just sat down and closed his eyes, slipping nearly straight away into a comfortable slumber. Until Jehan's soft voice broke through his rêverie.

\- What have I done, 'Parnasse? Tell me...

\- You've infected me with dreams. Dreams of blood and death, and loneliness. Such terrible loneliness. How dare you get into my mind like that.

\- ...I do not understand...

\- When I dream, I dream of dying. I dream of dying and it _scares_ me. Do you hear me? I am terrified of dying and of leaving nothing behind.

\- 'Parnasse...

\- Because when I die, what will I have? Who will remember me? You are the only person who has awoken such feelings in me, what am I supposed to do with them? Take them back!

Jehan put his hand ever so softly on Montparnasse's shoulder, not daring more in such an open spot.

\- I cannot take them back. But I am not sorry to have awoken them in you, you deserve them.

\- I _deserve_ this? How do I deserve this?! I never wished to feel regret or fear!

\- You deserve to know what it is like to love and be loved. I know you do not believe it at the moment, but you must. You must believe that I love you, Montparnasse, and that I am firmly convinced that you love me also.

The poet became more daring and this time his hand slipped into Montparnasse's, squeezing their fingers together. Such a small touch...such an innocent touch...such a dangerous touch. And this time, Montparnasse looked at him and his beautiful brown eyes once again took his breath away. For a person who had never known love, he certainly knew how to inspire it.

\- I love you, Montparnasse.

\- ...I know.

\- And when we die, we always leave something behind. Even if it's nothing more than a few lines of poetry or a dried flower. Or a memory living in the hearts of our friends. I know I shall live forever as long as only one person remembers me, and even if I am forgotten by mortal minds, the world will not forget me. I am a child of the universe, made of stardust. And so are you, Montparnasse.

 

*

 

The sun was burning his eyes again, but Montparnasse didn't move. He simply returned the pressure on his hand, an admission without words, a silent answer to an unanswered question.


End file.
